


Strike a pose (and bear the weight of well-tailored clothes)

by lynndyre



Category: The Scarlet Pimpernel - Baroness Orczy
Genre: Gen, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:22:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24289639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lynndyre/pseuds/lynndyre
Summary: Across the channel, the coal-heaver Rateau is being well paid to keep his entirely uninjured self out of the public view, and here in England the ton must have its darlings.
Relationships: Marguerite Blakeney/Percy Blakeney, Percy Blakeney & Andrew Ffoulkes
Comments: 8
Kudos: 24
Collections: Hurt Comfort Exchange 2020





	Strike a pose (and bear the weight of well-tailored clothes)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lirin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lirin/gifts).



Across the channel, the coal-heaver Rateau is being well paid to keep his entirely uninjured self out of the public view, and here in England Sir Andrew Ffoulkes worries. Less than a day returned to English soil, and they are all of them on display once more. The ton must have its darlings.

At least, at this ball, there is no French Envoy watching them all. 

Still, he fancies Percy could sell it even so well to Chauvelin himself, unless the man knew exactly what he was looking for. Andrew is watching as close as he can, and even he can barely catch a hint of it. The sweep of Percy's arm and quizzing glass a fraction less expansive than its wont. His most vacuous laugh, a fraction less deep. They have done this before, and Percy is a past master of concealment of every kind.

Save that never before has the occasion been quite so public while injury remained quite so recent-- Percy's back had taken a heavy whipping meant for the unhelpful Rateau -- and save that Andrew, who had worn the dirty uniform of a soldier of France, knows full well how hard some of those blows had fallen; having dealt them with his own hand. And those not by his own effort he must perforce assume to be worse, having been made with genuine intent. Not a hint of it shows in Percy now, though the Prince of Wales has kept him at his side for hours, an amusement and a foil to distract from his own royal troubles.

No, the weakest point of tonight's charade is Andrew himself. He plays off his own distraction as a consequence of Suzanne's absence; it is true enough that he misses her. And though he hopes rather than imagines his acting has improved in any vast capacity since failing to convince Marguerite, England's elite present tonight have little of her inclination to observe. 

Even in rabid, suspicious France, Andrew had managed to strike convincingly enough. England should be effortless.

Percy leans against the mantle while gesturing, and Andrew tracks the extra seconds before he straitens fully once more, untroubled laughter carrying through the crowd.

When Prinny declares that everyone should go and dance, having taken a liking to the tune, Andrew bites his tongue. As at any ball the Prince attends, the windows have been shut tight, and the ballroom itself is overheated with people and candles alike. But Marguerite Blakeney, laughing, claims her clumsy husband, a concession to the Prince's desires, and she and Andrew are united in their purpose. Andrew himself offers his hand to the sister of one of Suzanne's friends.

The dance proceeds by rote. Figures through figures, pass, turn, trade partners, re-form. The lines move against each other, and Lady Blakeney steps up to touch fingers with Andrew, her eyes shining with calculation and concern. Andrew is happy to take her whispered directions.

The Blakeneys are drawn apart from one another as the dancers quit the floor. Andrew's lady partner is lost in the crowd. Marguerite's small hand catches Andrew's arm, her strong, intent grip so very different from Suzanne's. Then she moves towards the spotlight, and Andrew follows Percy's retreat as the dancers for the next set surge around them, moving to take their places. 

Percy' does not return to Prinny's table, rather he moves- unobtrusive for all his height and presence- towards the darker hallways, the absence of the heated throng. The card rooms are filling again, the supper rooms being cleared by efficient, watchful servants, but the library is empty. 

Percy actually starts when Andrew enters behind him.

The edge of the library table hits Percy's leg, and he catches himself on it, nearly goes down before Andrew can manhandle him the few steps into a chair. With Percy's breath heaving under his hands, Andrew watches his bowed head and the doorway by turns. 

The last time he followed a half-fainting Blakeney from a ballroom, it had at least been an act.

"Sink me, Andrew, my apologies --Things went a bit grey for a moment. Demmed inconvenient."

Andrew releases a frustrated hiss. "Really, Percy. Even if you were let blood by the most practiced physician in the Realm, they'd hardly tell you to go dancing in that inferno! 

Percy's laugh is breathless, but genuine all the same. "Ah, but I cannot give Prinny my very good reasons. Still! No harm done, and all will be well enough. These things always come off worse the second day."

The perfect tailoring and resplendant fabric of Percy's jacket betrays no hint of bandages beneath. But in the low light, the lilac becomes grey, and Percy's normally healthy complexion is near to matching it, an ugly competing pallor against the off-white of his powdered hair.

Andrew reaches for Percy's cravat against his protestations.

"Took me a quarter of an hour to tie that, don't you know."

"No doubt because you shouldn't have been raising your arms so far." He sticks Percy's cravat pin into his own significantly less elegant neckwear, rather than pocketing it and stabbing himself or his valet later, a lesson learned from experience. And then he pulls the fabric loose at Percy's throat, and as Percy breathes, the edge of a strip of white bandage flirts with visibility, standing out where a darker shadow marks the curve of shoulder closest his neck.

Andrew doesn't know if this bruise is one of his doing, or if those all lie beneath the cloth. Arrack punch churns unpleasantly in his stomach, and he shuts his eyes against the memory- but that seemed only to bring the feel of the whip handle to his hand all the stronger. The echoes of impact sting through his hand, and up into his shoulder.

Percy is looking at him.

Andrew swallows and drops his hands from Percy's cravat.

"Lady Blakeney had asked me to follow you and see you outside to your carriage. She will make excuses and engineer sufficient distraction for the Prince of Wales."

The forgiveness in Percy's look is heavy, weighting down his hand on Andrew's.

"Very good, then. My Margot will handle things - I shall be sorry to miss her performance."

Andrew fumbles, drawing back from Percy's grip. "We can go out through the windows, here, and onto the back lawn. I think the conservatory is lit, but it won't be between us and the carriage walk."

"I am in your hands." 

God, but Percy must know how that burns. For all the risks they've chosen, all the dangers he's followed the man into, dangers and helplessness are a different horror than this - knowing he has done all he could, knowing he has done exactly as Percy wished him to, but knowing Percy now bled and hurt and had been brought near fainting from Andrew's own hands-

Andrew turns away and opens the window, the cold night air against his face making his eyes burn. The library candles gutter, and the breeze threatens that most English of weathers: rain before the morning. 

In the night air Percy recovers himself quickly, as he always has, though the warm candlelight still refuses to give full color to his face. 

"Come, give me a hand." Percy rises with one hand on the library table, and one on Andrew's arm. He is steady, and his grip is a check, a balance rather than a necessity. But rather than moving forward, or allowing Andrew to draw away, Percy pulls him closer, into a mortifying and entirely needed embrace.

"No man has had better friends, Andrew. Nor could any man trust them more."

Andrew's hand, trying to avoid shoulders, back, sides, ends up in a fist at Percy's lapel, thumping once against that indomitable chest. "Damn it, Percy."

"Now hurry, Margot will be waiting for us."


End file.
